


Heavenly Twins

by yuletide_archivist



Category: Mission: Impossible (Movies)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-12-22
Updated: 2004-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-25 04:55:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1632629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mission Commander Swanbeck spents Christmas Eve with his favorite two agents.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heavenly Twins

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Melina

 

 

Mission Commander Swanbeck collected fairy tales and myths.

On his shelves and in his extensive repertoire to his grandchildren, they lay dormant waiting for the perfect application. While odd on the surface for a man of his stature, it was understandable. Despite how...renegade his career had ended up, he had matriculated at Oxford as a classics major.

His senior thesis had been on game strategies in Greek and Roman battles which had scandalized all his proper dons whom he had suspected hated him from the moment he committed the crime of being Welsh. From that thesis came men in a sleek American cars to his dormitory on the eve of World War II and from that, the rest of his life.

But he had never loved the classics. Even as he read of Achilles and Agamemnon, he was personally drawn to the later, softer tales of good and evil. Grimm's stories, campfire fodder, things to comfort and teach little children.

Even as an old man, he liked stories with princesses rescued, princes fighting, magical animals helping and the nasty witches and warlocks- well nothing was ever said of what happened to the bad guys afterwards. Nothing but a crushing defeat and happily ever after.

He liked that best of all.

*

"You don't know how this feels."

"I'm actually pretty sure I do."

"Not the way it does to me. Not all the time."

The elevator mercifully dinged and four feet pass by the tiny eye of a camera. Stealth, as the Mission Commander always predicted it would, had been lost to the intel world. Instead now, as he heard the snakestrike hiss of silenced pistols, the younger guard relied on being glib, naive, and even ruthlessly happy to pile up the bodies until the mission was complete.

They were loyal, yes, and foolish too; that was what mattered.

Smoke begins to roll like mist in front of the camera. The Mission Commander goes to wipe the screen with his sleeve then realizes yet again, as levels of the hotel far above him fire alarms chime shrilly, that he should never underestimate his favorites. The supremacy of the classics in his line of work was proven again and again over all sad medieval tales of little girls and poisoned apples. This time, the proof was Ethan Hunt and Sean Ambrose. His Heavenly Twins.

*

He was in the van waiting for them as they exited wearing the same face. They were both medium build, slightly taller than average, young: the standard agency physical shape. He rapped at the driver's partition and just as their feet left the parking lot pavement, they were off.

Sean--the one on the left--sighed gratefully and pulled off the pale smooth skin of his face, revealing a less openly good-looking face . His was sharper and the roughness of a five o' clock shadow stood out where the mask was unbroken. Displaying no care for the agency's things he tossed in the corner by a tire iron.

He picked the spirit gum off his face, a slight twist of a sneer developing under his fingers.

"I despise this, you know, Swanbeck."

Ethan grinned guilelessly from his car seat, holstering his gun.

"You should have heard the griping inside."

"Of course I did," Swanbeck said mildly. Off their startled looks- neither could truly keep a secret behind their eyes- he added, "Do not mistake yourselves, gentlemen. Even professionals need to be assessed for maximum effectiveness."

Sean snorted. "And obedience."

"Yes, obedience. You are Ethan's double, Sean. Like it or not, it does not go both ways for a reason."

"So I'm the Beatles, he's John Lennon. I understand."

Ethan was smiling again, a nervous habit he never fully controlled as a rookie. "I don't think Swanbeck gets the reference, Sean."

Swanbeck chose to ignore them. "I'm putting you up at the Plaza. River views. Do take care not to set any more unnecessary fires, would you?"

Simultaneously, both pointed to the other. "He did it." This time, both scowled. Ethan's green eyes were still in Sean's, making the glare almost unsettling.

Twins never got to choose their partner, neither in life or the agency. He held up the gold key card towards Ethan but kept Sean's eye contact.

"Presidential suite. If you have any questions, go to the Christmas tree in the lobby and smash an ornament. They're quite pretty, but don't feel bad. We have deep pockets."

*

"God rest ye merry gentlemen," said Sean as they elbowed their way into the hotel room. "I'm glad for not spending another Christmas in debrief at least."

Ethan strolled through the suite, touching the fruit basket, looking at the glittering expanse of New York City in the tall windows flanked by rich brocade curtains.

"Why do you think they gave this to us?"

Sean grabbed an apple and bit it greedily. "Why should we care? I'm knackered over here."

"You're right; we should be in debrief."

"They weren't anything but some diplomats," said Sean with his mouth full, "It can wait `til tomorrow."

Ethan toed off his shoes and sat on the couch. He looked over at Sean. Six months working with him and he still felt jumpy turning his back to him. Maybe that was Sean's doing. He knew that petty childhood theft had led Sean to this life, which was ironic since perfect unyielding adherence to the rules had led him to the same direction. It had been Sean, in a lot of ways, that had encouraged him to improvise, to innovate, to improve.

The fact that he resented that fact wasn't unusual, but the strength of his dislike still surprised him. Ethan Hunt didn't hate anyone. It was one of his best features.

"Why are you staring into an empty fireplace, mate?"

"Because I don't know how to turn it on," said Ethan passively, hoping not to give any of his troubled thoughts away. Sean, apple core stuck firmly in his mouth sat next to him on the sofa and leaned forward to fiddle with the dials next to the fireplace.

"Leave it to you, Hunt, to just sit there," Sean said, though without malice. "You're the perfect American, you know that?"

The dials only seemed to retract the glass panels in front of the fire and then Sean laughed. "But some things remain the same." He tossed the apple core into the fireplace then extricated a large bronze pot of fatwood to start the fire. Watching Sean arrange the sticks perfectly in a pile with such care bit at Ethan's resolve and he spoke, harsher than he intended.

"I didn't say I wanted a fire."

Sean looked up at him, a ghost of a smirk playing across his handsome face. "You think I was doing this just for you?"

He held a bundle of sticks in front of him. "Do you know Swanbeck told me a...watchacallit...a story that means another thing..."

"Allegory?"

"Yeah, he told me an allegory, this was real early on, American Indian thing about how a bundle of sticks is stronger than just one stick alone. Then he told me that a bundle of sticks are called a faggot--I saw you wincing, Hunt, just now--"

"Sorry, cultural difference, I--"

"Well there's a point to this one, appreciate it. We were out in the woods see, showing me like I'm showing you and he did this."

Sean took the bundle and cracked it fiercely against his knee. The soft wood bent and splintered. With one more terrific crack, he broke the sticks in half. Ethan looked at him mystified.

"And he says, there is always a way to break a faggot. Be a stronger stick."

Sure his mouth was agape, Ethan swallowed. "...he told you that?"

"Weird bugger isn't he? Seems like it frightens you more than it frightened me. Then again, you're not so smart to see he's full of shyte."

Ethan shot back. "Maybe you're not smart enough to take his advice."

Sean tossed the sticks into the fireplace and brushed his hands free of the loose wood. Turning away from Ethan he lit a long match. His eyes seemed to dance with the light, looking more dangerous and happier than Ethan had ever seen him.

"Hey arsehole," he said simply, breaking Ethan's reverie, "Happy Christmas."

And even though Ethan had wanted a fire, and he had wanted a partner he could understand, and how dearly he wanted to be a stronger stick, he rose from the couch and dropped his hands on the front of Sean's sweater-clad shoulders and pushed him to the floor.

The match dropped.

*

Castor and Pollox traded the future of the afterlife to be with each other, taking turns in hell and heaven. One could only hope for such fidelity among siblings. Never mind co-workers. If this could be rightly called work.

From his hole in the basement, watching his familiar screen, Swanbeck shook his head with a smile and took a sip of bourbon. It seemed no matter what he did, the classics always won out. And he knew this time he wouldn't see his Heavenly Twins until long after the fire had consumed the room.

_fin._

 

 

 


End file.
